


Getting Drinks

by sardonicsmiley



Category: Blade (Movie Series), Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, Language, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-10-24
Updated: 2007-10-24
Packaged: 2021-01-02 03:00:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21154478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sardonicsmiley/pseuds/sardonicsmiley
Summary: And then, because Dean's not trying to get out of his lap, which is a good sign, but not exactly ripping his clothes off either, he lowers his voice another octave, "Really, really, worth your while."





	Getting Drinks

**Author's Note:**

> Set sometime during Sam's stay at Stanford. King is an ex-vampire turned vampire hunter from Blade Trinity, and is fucking hot sex on legs delightfully snarky.

Hannibal King meets Dean Winchester in the middle of an attack on a vampire blood bank in upstate New York. He's in the middle of getting the shit beat out of him, trying to buy Abby enough time to, uh, convince the bank manager to unlock the safe, when he realizes that the vampire that had been whaling on him is currently headless.

He squints up, blinking blood out of his eyes, and gets his first glimpse of Winchester. The man's got a machete leaning against his shoulder, a cocksure smile, and eyes so big and green that for a second all Hannibal can do is stare. He sees the freckles, scattered across pale skin, the same time the man reaches out to give him a hand up, and knows that he's fucking screwed.

The man says, "Thought I'd give you a hand," and his voice is deep and whiskey rough and Hannibal wonders absently if he smokes.

He can feel his own smile, wide and he knows adorably crooked, lets himself sway a little into the shorter man's space when he says, "I'd love it if you did." He considers the fact that he's trying to flirt with some man that he's just met while bloody and bruised, and wonders if perhaps all the times he's been hit in the head have given him brain damage.

And then the man squeezes his hand, does this thing where he slides his fingers over Hannibal's knuckles before cocking his head up and to the side, "Maybe we should help your friend first?" He's actually pretty sure that Abby can handle this on her own, but he's willing to concede that helping her would probably be the polite thing to do.

Still, he holds the other man's hand for another second, memorizing the calluses against his skin, says, "I'm King, what's your name?" He does not add 'gorgeous' but it's a near thing.

The man's smile gets wider, if that's possible, and he drops his eyes very pointedly before dragging them back up to King's face. His voice is sinfully low, "King. Really? Hm." And when he drags his tongue across his bottom lip Hannibal comes this close to deciding right then and there that Abby really will be fine by herself. And then the man is pulling away, moving towards the sounds of vampires dying further in the bank, calling over his shoulder, "I'm Dean. Dean Winchester. Coming, King?"

And King leans his face up to the ornate ceiling, mouths 'Thank you' and sprints to catch up.

* * *

Abby flashes him an irritated look when he strolls into the room and jerks her head towards Winchester, who is gleefully taking vampires apart. He shrugs, tries to look innocent and has a feeling that he fails spectacularly when she rolls her eyes. It's kind of irritating, how good she is at reading him anymore.

And then she scowls, raises her bow and he ducks when she fires at him, and the vampire behind him dies noisily. He flashes her a dirty look, and she does the innocent look much better than he does, but he still doesn't buy it. Rolls to his feet and stakes a vampire through the throat and then it's nothing but movement and blood and fire.

Afterwards, when there's no more undead scum anywhere and they've successfully liberated the donors, Winchester's still there. There's blood sneaking out of the corner of his mouth, and it makes his lips almost irresistibly red. The faint shine of sweat across his cheeks helps, too, and the adrenaline in Hannibal's blood stream, denied anything to kill, decides to put itself to better use.

He exchanges a quick look with Abby, who sighs, full of long suffering aggravation and waves a hand dismissively before telling him, "I'll see you…well, I'll see you later. Play nice. Don't break anything."

He flutters his eyelashes at her, aware that grinning like a wolf probably isn't changing her mind about his intentions, says, "I make no promises and tell no lies, sweetness." And then Dean's strolling over, and King takes the opportunity to enjoy the way his shirt is clinging to his skin, the low hang of his jeans on his hips. He arches an eyebrow at Abby, "Maybe I'm not the one you should be worried about."

She laughs, says, "I'm sure you can take care of yourself, King. Later." And then she's turning and walking away. He can see her sliding her earbuds in as she goes, and she blasts the music so loud that he can hear it, some of that rap shit she likes so much. And then he turns his attention back to Winchester.

The man's got one hand tucked into his pocket, the other absently twirling the machete. He's watching King openly, a contemplative look on his face, and King squares his shoulders, tucks his thumbs into the waistband of his pants and lets his weight stretch the fabric, just a little. Purrs, "How about I buy you a drink?"

Dean's smile completely shuts off what parts of his higher brain functions had managed to survive this long. The other man's voice is low and private as his own, "How about you do."

* * *

Luckily there's a bar in the bumfuck town they're in. They'd driven in Dean's car, because he'd taken one look at King's motorcycle and said, "No backseat," and King had been completely fine with leaving it behind after that. Besides, the Impala was fucking nice, and it gives him a chance to stare at Dean while he drives.

He contemplates, watching the light dance across Dean's knuckles on the steering wheel, reaching over and jacking the man off while he drives. Or hell, maybe a blow job would be a good idea, too. He's just reaching over, sliding his hand across Dean's worn jeans, ridiculously pleased by the heat that reaches out to caress his fingers, when they pull into the bar's parking lot.

Dean's voice is gravel rough, "I was promised a drink."

"And you'll get one." But he leaves his hand where it is, drawing patterns up and down the top of Dean's thigh, leaning across the seat. Dean meets him halfway, and Hannibal kisses him hard, gets his free hand around the back of Dean's head, holding. Dean makes an impatient sound in the back of his throat, closes his teeth on Hannibal's lower lip and sucks.

And then Dean's got a hand up under his shirt, short fingernails dragging up over his ribs and Hannibal shivers. He gets his fingers in Dean's pocket, tugs hard and moves the smaller man into his lap. Dean makes another sound, lets Hannibal's lip slide out from between his teeth and slides their mouths back together.

He keeps his fingers in Dean's pocket, stretches his thumb out and drags it across Dean's erection, straining against the front of his jeans. Dean groans, throaty and thick, and King tries to swallow the sound, licks his way into the other man's mouth and rocks his hips up against Dean's ass.

He rumbles, "Wanna fuck you," and Dean grinds down into him, gets a hand into King's hair, tugging. "Tell me I can." He runs his thumb over Dean's erection again, slides his other hand down the line of Dean's spine, lets his fingers drag into the skin right below the waistband of his jeans. "God, please."

Dean smiles against his mouth, and he can feel the twist of his full lips. Dean's voice is low, his words drifting against King's lips, "Not in the parking lot of a redneck bar." Which, King concedes, is a good point. He groans in frustration, slides his hand lower, lifting both of them when he jerks his hips.

"Sure I can't change your mind?" And Dean laughs, surprisingly young and sweet, the movement bouncing him in King's lap. He groans, leans forward and nips at Dean's mouth, promises low and thick, "I'm willing to risk it, myself. C'mon, it'll be fun," he rocks his hips, "exciting," pants into Dean's mouth, "and worth your while."

And then, because Dean's not trying to get out of his lap, which is a good sign, but not exactly ripping his clothes off either, he lowers his voice another octave, "Really, really, worth your while." They're not even parked close to the bar, they're out on the edge under some trees and he thinks that maybe Dean had something similar in mind when he'd parked them way the fuck over here.

"Damn well better be," and King knows victory when it's groaned into his mouth. Hannibal moans, fucks his tongue into Dean's mouth and finally slides his hand completely over the other man's ass, squeezing. When he lifts and twists Dean makes a startled sound, but they're not going far, and he deposits Dean on his back, plasters his own body over the younger man's.

"Scout's honor," he pants, lowering his mouth to Dean's jaw, smooth skin that he sucks into his mouth, and he nips, wants to bite, and that's almost frightening. He hasn't wanted to bite someone for…well, for a long time. He pulls his lips over his teeth, because it's uncomfortably similar to the thirst, this sudden heavy desire in his chest.

One of his hands is caught under Dean's ass, and he tugs it free, groans when Dean rocks up against him, hips angling up. And since his other hand is already there, right beside the other man's zipper, he tugs it down, hooks his fingers into the man's belt loops and tugs.

Dean lifts his hips, bracing his feet on the seat somewhere behind them, and rising in a bow under Hannibal's weight from his knees to his shoulders. King freezes for an instant, enjoying the press of hard muscle against his chest, the strength in the other man's body. He buries his face in Dean's neck, sucking on salty skin as he drags the jeans down Dean's thighs and then has to pull back to get rid of his boots.

Dean pulls him back down as soon as the jeans are gone, one hand in his hair, the other gripping at his lower back, fingers curling against King's shirt. And Dean lets his thighs fall open, lets King settle between them and he grabs handfuls of Dean's shirt, wrestles it up and over the other man's head, throws it into the back seat with a low growl.

The other man has more scars than Hannibal had expected, silvered patches of skin, circles and long jagged lines. King traces his fingertips across them, feels Dean shiver, and presses an openmouthed kiss to a little raised circle of skin high on the man's chest. Dean shudders again, yanking on King's shirt, pulling it high up against his shoulders as King slides his mouth from scar to scar.

And then Dean's pulling the shirt over his head, and King pulls back enough for him to work it off his arms. His shirt ends up on the dashboard, and he thinks about throwing it in the backseat as well, except then Dean puts a hand on his stomach, slides his palm up over King's chest, curls his fingers around the back of his neck and drags him down again.

Dean's mouth is open and waiting for him, and he kisses him while scrambling at his own zipper, shoving his jeans down his hips and then scrambling in his pockets. And there, yes, condom, and yes, lube. Abby had laughed at him when he'd tucked them into his pocket, when he'd informed her that he had a good feeling. He growls against the firm skin of Dean's stomach, "Gonna fuck you."

Dean tugs on his hair, half-laughs half-gasps, "Promises, promises."

And King slides his mouth lower, because he'd said it would be worth Dean's while, and he's a lot of things, but he's not a liar. Dean's hard and thick, and King rubs his lips down the underside of his Dean's cock, turns his mouth to the side and sucks on the soft skin high on his thigh.

Dean whines, thighs falling farther apart, and King nips at the skin, flattens his tongue against it and then sucks it into his mouth again. Dean's tugging on his hair, still, again, some more, and King relents, lets Dean direct him.

Dean positions King's head over his cock, looking down at him with glazed eyes and a half open mouth. King keeps eye contact, lets his mouth fall open and lets his lips sink slowly over the head of Dean's dick. The man makes an unintelligible sound, and his head falls back. King smiles around him, licks and sucks and alternates until he finds a rhythm that suits him and has Dean's shoulders curling up off the seat.

And it's only then, as Dean starts to fall off the edge that he slicks his fingers up with the lube, slides his hand back. Dean jerks up into his mouth when King teases a finger around the man's ass, hums in the back of his throat to distract Dean and slides his finger in with one smooth push.

He slows the movement of his mouth, leaves his lips just closed over the tip of the man's cock, crooks his finger inside Dean and smiles again at the whining, needy sound the man makes. He works his finger in and out, slowly, drags his tongue in slow circles, just enough to keep Dean interested and distracted. And then, when it's time to add another finger he swallows down, hears Dean make a wild sound.

Dean is babbling, "Oh God, Oh God-" and King reaches up with his free hand, closes it around the base of Dean's cock and squeezes. Dean's breathing heavy, chest heaving, cock bobbing in the back of King's throat as he backs away from orgasm.

King keeps moving his fingers, fucking them into Dean, opening him up. It kills him to slide a third finger in, but a promise is a promise. He lets go of the base of Dean's cock, swallows him back deep and this time when Dean starts whimpering, squeezes his shoulders so hard it hurts, he lets him come down his throat.

Dean's still shaking when King slides his fingers free, grabs both sides of Dean's hips and flips him cleanly over. Dean makes a sound that King can't translate, but when King runs a hand up his spine Dean whines and cants his hips up, dragging his knees up. King rumbles, "Oh, Christ." His hands absolutely only shake a tiny bit when he rolls the condom on, and he manages to get most of the lube onto his hands.

He leans in over Dean's back, presses his forehead against the back of Dean's neck, wraps an arm around Dean's waist and presses into him. Dean's insanely tight, even after being worked open, even after orgasm, and King's ridiculously glad he got the other man off first.

He still doesn't get all the way in before he pauses, lets the other man adjust around him. His shoulders are shaking, his weight supported on his elbows, braced on either side of Dean's shoulders. He pushes his mouth into Dean's neck, sucks the salt off his skin. Waits. Trembling.

And then, just when he's sure he can't hold still anymore, Dean grunts, pushes back against him, and Hannibal lets out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He rocks forward, one long slide into the welcoming heat of Dean's body. He pants, noses up into Dean's hair, takes a deep breath, feels Dean rock down into the seat and then shoves back up against him.

And that's it, he takes a deep breath, rumbles, "Gonna fuck you hard."

Dean makes a desperate sound, and Hannibal slides almost all the way out of him, and then slams back in. He rolls his hips, bypasses slow and careful and goes straight to hard and fast. Dean is writhing under him, is groaning, "God, yes, c'mon, oh, gonna, fuck-"

And King wonders if Dean's hard again. God, he hopes so. He fucks into him, keeps one elbow braced above Dean's shoulder, slides the other down between Dean's burning hot skin and the leather of the seat. Dean's grinding his erection into the seat and Hannibal grunts, "Shit, fuck man," and fists him, tries to match the rhythm to his thrusts.

He knows he's got to be crushing Dean down into the seat, he's inches taller than the other man, broader and thicker. Dean doesn't seem to mind, rocking up onto his cock, down into his fist, making sounds that get King fucking him harder, desperately.

And then Dean's tightening around him, cock jumping in his hand and King swears, and slams as deep into Dean as he can. His teeth somehow find the back of Dean's neck, all that tempting skin laid out before him, and he bites down. Dean's blood is hot and salty in his mouth, and he doesn't crave it for the hunger, not for the thirst. He just wants to mark him, wants for everyone to see this and know he was fucked. Know that he's been taken.

He collapses on top of Dean, smoothing kisses across the bloodied skin on the back of his neck. He rumbles, licking up the taste of Dean's skin and blood, tracing the lines his teeth have left. He wonders if it'll scar, and shakes when just the thought of it makes his cock twitch with renewed interest.

At first he thinks Dean doesn't notice, but then the man laughs, and the vibrations finish what the bite started. He groans, deep in his throat, drops his head down onto Dean's shoulder, runs a hand up his side, wraps it around his arm. Says, "Hey, um…" It doesn't seem right to ask if he can fuck him again, but it doesn't exactly seem right to just start pounding in, either.

Dean laughs again, and King can't help the one-two-three jack hammer of his hips. "Never gonna get that drink, am I?" Dean's voice is deliciously rough, fucked out, and when he tightens down around King's cock, Hannibal takes it as tactic permission to resume the fucking. If the sound Dean makes is anything to go by, it was.

He rumbles, feels it start somewhere in his chest, "Worth your while though, ain't it?"


End file.
